Two days before Christmas and I get an email from a producer of a national TV morning talk show. She’d like to talk to me about a piece they’re doing on Neil LaBute’s latest, “Fat Pig.”

“We thought it would be interesting to speak to real women who have had similar experiences dealing with weight issues in the ‘dating game.’”

So I call her up. “I haven’t seen the play or read it. I’ve just read about it…”

“Oh, no problem! We’re just looking for real women to talk to.” Her voice dropped. “That must have been so terrible, having your ex-boyfriend write about your weight!”

It took me a minute to figure out what she was talking about. “Um, actually, that never happened.”

Pause. “It didn’t?”

“No. No, I actually made that up when I wrote GOOD IN BED.”

Lengthier pause. “Did anything like that ever happen to you?”

“No, not really. I knew that I wanted to write about a really bad break-up, and that was the worst thing I could imagine, and…”

“Well, do you know anyone where something like that did happen to them?”

I told her no; gave her the names of a few funny memoirists who have chronicled their experiences dealing with weight issues in the ‘dating game,’ and sent her on her way. Now I’m dealing with the fact that as far as TV is concerned, my dating life was the Diet Coke of tragedy: just one calorie, not tragic enough.